The Fine Art of Murder

by Tony Bulmer

“You are not fit to be my wife damn you. Perhaps when I am rid of you, you will realize the nature of your folly.

  “My only folly was to marry you in the first place, now set down your sword and allow me passage, so that I might leave you to your insufferable vanity.”

  The cold words of half-truth twisted in the Generals gut, unleashing a furious and unrestrained burst of passion that cascaded out of him in a spectacular and most violent eruption. He closed the short yards between them with the speed of a crazed barbarian.

  Joséphine shrieked in terror, ducking her face behind the painting in the hope it might protect her. The futility of such an action was lost in the adrenaline-fuelled insanity of the moment it was perhaps just as well, because as she cowered ostrich-like, from her attacker, the General’s blade scythed down towards her.

  But instead of cleaving off his wife’s head, as he had surely intended, the General in his fury mistimed his assault. As the blade cut down-wards, he realized, too late, that the hard edge of the picture frame would catch the full force of the blow.

  The saber split deep into the wood, and the General let out a wild curse, angry that he had missed his target, furious that he had damaged the very painting he sought to protect. He struggled to correct his mistake, but found that the sword was firmly embedded in the side of the painting, so firmly embedded in fact, that he could not pull it free.

  Joséphine opened her eyes, realizing immediately that she had been saved from certain death, by some divine providence. The next thing she realized, was that now finally, she had a chance of escape. Holding on to the picture for dear life, she danced and struggled around the room as her husband attempted to pull his sword free. For every move he made, she countered smartly, ensuring he could not get traction to pull the blade free, and so they danced—first one way—then the other locked in a deadly fandango with only the soft, unassailable air of the French countryside breathing over them as an accompaniment. From the garden came the calls of exotic wildlife.

  —A sudden commotion.

  The sounds of hysteria, as Mlle de Vaudey, still in a state of undress, ran shrieking across the lawn, pursued by a gaggle of concerned servants and the ribald barking of household dogs.

  The distraction was all that Joséphine needed to break the impasse—she twisted wildly, throwing the heavy picture frame as hard as she could. The gambit was rather more effective than she anticipated as frame snapped suddenly free of her husbands saber and flew through the air with impressive speed. Through the open windows it went, bouncing once on the edge of the Juliette balcony, before plummeting downwards to the lawn below. Joséphine did not pause to see the impact, she moved on instinct, bolting through the bedroom door and down the narrow stair way three—four steps at a time, The anguished curses of her outraged husband ringing in her ears. Joséphine ran onwards, the taste of wild adrenaline hot in her mouth.

  She ran through the house, her brain almost mad with panic, not believing she had succeeded in her escape, onwards then she ran, faster and faster, the wild euphoria of escape burning within her. She headed out into the fast approaching twilight—into the gardens, her beautiful gardens, a refuge of flowers and animals and beauty and hope, a world where every passion and fantasy would be fulfilled.

  Running blindly across the lawn now, running away from the terror, towards a new future, any future—running so that the feelings of horror and despair would never find her—hoping against hope, that she could escape and disappear for ever in her lost Eden, a world where she could feel the unassailable freedom of a world that was truly hers.

  It was then she saw her savior, the object of her true hearts affection, running towards her through the dusky garden light, her little dog Fortuné, so loving and attentive, racing through the twilight to save his mistress and heal her pain.

  The savage curses of the General rang out across the garden, his dark threats echoing under a sanguine sky. But as the euphoric twilight closed in around her, Joséphine knew that her husband could no longer touch her—she was free at last free to live in a future of her own choosing and Fortuné, her dear Fortuné would be her companion.

  But even as the euphoria of escape closed around her, a dark foreboding shape came bounding out of the woods, following in the wake of her beloved Fortuné, closing the gap with long, lolloping strides. It was Huysmans, the giant Bordeaux mastiff, belonging to her husband’s chef. She had told the chef to restrain his infernal dog on many occasions, keep him leashed behind the servant’s quarters, but the chef was a man of insubordinate nature, and whilst he was a craftsman in the kitchen, he was disorderly and drunkenly seditious in every other aspect of his service. Since his arrival at Château de Malmaison, the chef had resisted all Joséphine’s overtures of goodwill, preferring instead to foment a sullen, and obstreperous resistance to any kind of governance.

  Her euphoria turning quickly to concern, Joséphine called urgently to Fortuné, urging the little dog on, so that he might evade the attentions of the monstrous Huysmans, but Fortuné was a dog of idiosyncratic nature and a fearsome personality, that belied his pocket-sized frame. Rather than leaping into her arms as she expected, Fortuné circled around her, yapping furiously for all he was worth, determined to protect his mistress from the approach of the much larger dog. If it had been a match of valor versus brutal instinct Fortuné would have vanquished his opponent in short order, but this was a primitive conquest of hunter versus hunted and poor Fortuné never stood a chance.

  Joséphine tried to get between them, her plaintive cries for assistance rising up in the rapidly falling dusk. The servants came eventually, and her husband too, striding out onto the lawn in his shirtsleeves. By the time they arrived it was too late. Poor Fortuné had been unrecognizably mangled. Joséphine crouched on her knees holding the tiny blood-soaked corpse in her arms. One by one, the servants came running up, horrified and breathless, too late even for words, as their mistress was consumed by deep wracking sobs and a grief so complete she was beyond consolation.

  General Bonaparte stood by the house. He sheathed his sword and absorbed the scene. Two of the grounds men managed with difficulty to rope the slavering mastiff and drag it away from the scene of carnage. The General watched silently. At length the chef sidled up beside him clutching wretchedly at an empty dog-leash. His apologies were gushing and sorrowful. The heavy scent of garlic and brandy wafted on the air.

  General Bonaparte stood silent.

  The cooks face when he finally arrived stood helpless his face twisting downwards with building fear and remorse. He fell to his knees, grasped the Generals boot and began blubbering incoherently. Before looking up with his wet booze addled eyes and swearing on his mother and father, and all the saints in the kingdom of heaven that—please if he could be forgiven, he would do anything—anything, to make up for this murderous episode.

  Finally the General said quietly. “I understand the young Hussar bought her the dog chef, what say you to that?”

  The chef stared up at his master with booze-ravaged eyes, his mouth working with silent fear.

  “I have affairs of State to consider. You will stay here, attend to your duties, and if the young Hussar buys her another dog, you will see to it that it meets a similar fate to this one. Am I clear chef?”

  The chef nodded vigorously, his downcast mouth finally emitting a strangled sob of gratitude.

  The General turned away and walked back to the house. Tomorrow he would leave for Paris, then onward to glory. Very soon the continent of Europe would meet its destiny—one people under the auspices of an empire greater than anything the world had ever seen and he Napoleon Bonaparte would be the man to lead it.

  The chef watched wordlessly as his master left. He sagged forwards clutching the lawn with his fingers thankful he was still alive to feel the wet grass. That is when he noticed the picture, laying broken and forlorn. The chef scuttled over to it on his hands and knees. A lady with the fairest ringlet hair, more beautiful than any he had ever se
en, staring up at him from the wet grass. The chef gaped at her, his eyes bulging with confusion, how and why could a picture as beautiful as this ever be cast out unwanted, from the great house of his master? The chef reached out with trepidation—lightly

  caressing the broken picture frame with his muddy fingers. He let out a low whimper then choked it back almost as quickly as it had burst free. Then, he gathered up the painting and the broken frame and wrapped it lovingly in his apron. He would save the lady, take care of her, make sure she came to no further harm.

  THE FINE ART OF MURDER 30

  Château de Malmaison, April 1814

  It had been an uncommonly sharp spring at Château de Malmaison, the glistening frosts of winter spreading relentlessly through the long months of March, into the rain-cast days of April—a creeping insurgency moving in from the east. Even as the city of Rueil-Malmaison steamed and shivered under the smoke shrouded rays of the slow turning seasons, Joséphine still felt the grip of a winter that would never end. The fortunes of the French Republic had been no less brutal—the armies of Russia, Prussia and the Austrian Empire now surrounding Paris on all sides, while the British and their allies were making rapid progress, moving in from the South. Joséphine had not seen the man she once called husband for many years, but even in their separation and divorce she could feel his pain—Corralled, humiliated, condemned to exile—there was no longer any hope that she would see him again, she had long since become reconciled with this inescapable truth, her dreams of an ascendant future now replaced, with an endless melancholy. How could the world ever be the same again, when all dreams of a brighter future had been snatched away, leaving only a smashed landscape of tragedy and defeat—with the empire destroyed, and the French Republic condemned under an endless tide of war and famine, how could the world turn good. How could it ever be spring again?

  The Russians had been the first to arrive. More civilized than the Austrians, less aggressively pompous than the British, it had almost been a relief to see them, until they started eating the animals. The swans and the ostriches had been the first to go, closely followed by the gazelles and antelopes. Finally, when there were no more deer left on the estate, they finally ate the zebra and the llamas too. After the culling of the wildlife, the estate lost much of its vitality, the calls of wild creatures now replaced, by the thundering indignities of vast army encampment. The Russians drained the lake, chopped back the ornamental trees for firewood, and ploughed up every road and lane in a ten-mile radius, with their infernal maneuvers. But despite all this, they remained polite, almost apologetic to her plight, and while she had been subject to many privations, Joséphine felt blessed that the invaders had left her rose garden intact. The garden was an oasis of tranquility, a place where she could escape the tumult that flowed around her. Since the fall of Paris, many great leaders had sought her company, Emperors and Generals from the greatest nations of the world, all of them fascinated to meet the woman whom the great Napoleon Bonaparte held so dear, despite the long years of separation. It made her proud at first, until she realized that these great men of Europe viewed her company as a freak-show pit stop, on their itinerary of conquest.

  A welcome exception to this parade of odious visitors had been Tsar Alexander of Russia, a gentleman of quality, who’s graceful and erudite company had proven a welcome relief to this most unfortunate series of intrusions. The Tsar had taken to visiting her for lunch, so that they might discuss light and pleasurable topics. His visits lifted Joséphine’s spirits immeasurably helping her to forget the encroaching grip of austerity.

  Prior to her lunchtime dates with the Tsar, Joséphine liked to walk in her garden, enjoying the air, and taking pleasure in the progress of her precious roses. It was on one such morning as this, that she was presented with a visitor of some long acquaintance, a man whom she had never expected to see again.

  “So, finally you are free my dear Rose, after these many long years of service.”

  Hippolyte Charles was wearing civilian clothes, not nearly as fetching as his smart gold-braided hussar uniform, with the tight little riding britches, thought Joséphine. She held out her white-gloved hand, allowed him the briefest kiss and said, “Freedom my dear Hippolyte is a relative state of being. There are those who argue that we may never be free, particularly in matters of the heart.” Joséphine paused, cupped a rose stem between her fingers and inhaled its sweet fragrance.

  Hippolyte Charles rocked forwards on his toes, thrusting his chest forwards manfully. “As soon as I heard the Emperor had signed the papers of abdication at Fontainebleau, I saddled my horse and came with all haste.”

  “It has been four long years since the divorce Hippolyte, Four years also since the General married the “womb” of Austria. ” Still, after these long and civilized years of separation, she found herself unable to mention the name of the Habsburg princess—Marie Louise of Austria—how ironic that the great Emperor Bonaparte, leader of the revolutionary Republic of France, should marry the great niece of the hated queen Marie Antoinette, a woman so neatly beheaded when the revolution started. Joséphine drew the spring air slowly into her lungs. She allowed herself a bitter little smile and said, “What fools middle aged men make of themselves over young girls. Still I understand the Emperor’s pretty little nineteen year old has already given him the heir he so desperately sought…such a pity his little Princling will be left with no lands to govern.”

  Hippolyte Charles pulled at his whiskers and gave an earnest nod, “You still have feelings for…the Emperor, perhaps that is why you didn’t respond to my letters?”

  Joséphine smiled lightly, “Letters?” She plucked a rose stem and twirled it absently between her fingers, “I heard you distinguished yourself in the Peninsular campaign Hippolyte, there was even talk of you being a hero, but I am sure such scurrilous rumors are quite unfounded.”

  “War is no time for heroism my dear Rose, it is an opportunity for the shrewd businessman.” Hippolyte Charles gave Joséphine a, self-satisfied look, adjusting his whiskers, with neat little businessman’s fingers. “I made a tidy fortune during the Peninsula campaign, a very tidy fortune. The kingdom of Spain is rotten with opportunity,” again Hippolyte Charles gave Joséphine a knowing smile. “Those Spanish dogs are a bunch of bloodthirsty robbers, and crafty with it, but they are no match for a man of enterprise, I can assure you of that.”

  “How nice for you,” said Joséphine blankly, her voice dead, as the east wind gusted around them, a cold reminder of impending catastrophe.

  “It’s all about commodities, food, fuel, munitions,” Continued Hippolyte Charles. “Control the flow of such things and it is possible to dictate the terms of mans destiny.”

  “Destiny can be a cruel mistress, you should be careful how you court her.”

  Hippolyte Charles laughed, “What do I care of courtship, when I am wedded to a fortune in Inca gold!”

  “You should take care, I hear that the Incas placed a curse on their wealth, perhaps that is why your Spanish friends were so anxious to get rid of it?”

  “The only curse I face, Madame, is the scourge of solitude.”

  Joséphine smiled, “Come, come, Hippolyte, I am sure that you will be able to buy many friends with your new found wealth.”

  “But no one compares to you my Rose, there was never another after you, and now at last, I have the means to make you mine,” He gave her a ruddy, manful look, as earnest as his rapacious soul could manage. “Come with me to my estate in Cassan, that we might leave the tragedy of the past behind us!” the plea was made in the spirit of hope, yet tinged with the wild breath of desperation.

  “How sweet of you Hippolyte, but who would look after my garden?”

  “I will have a new one planted, the most beautiful garden in the whole of France.”

  “I already have the most beautiful garden in France, and I have spent half a lifetime making it possible, I hardly think it would be wise to squander the future on something I already p
ossess, now would it?”

  “Squander Madame! Everything I have done, I did with the fervent hope that one day you would mine, knowing that unless I acquired the means, my dreams of being with you could never be fulfilled.”

  “Possession—how thoroughly charming. I never saw you as the possessive type Hippolyte, but surely, even a man of your new found means must realize that the world has moved on considerably since last we enjoyed each others company.”

  He hadn’t bargained for this. He had assumed that wealth had been the only obstacle to an eternal future of togetherness with his goddess Joséphine. He had not for one moment, considered that the object of his undying affections would evolve during his long absence, How could this be possible?

  “Do you not love me Madame? Will you not allow me to free you from this intolerable purgatory in which you find yourself—no husband, no future, no hope of life outside the sad walls of this wretched house? Surely you will permit me to love you Madame, to set you free from the intolerable cruelty of your existence here?”

  Joséphine gave Hippolyte Charles a sad smile. “Perhaps you think your exile in the Southern lands was a fortuitous turn of fate my dear innocent boy?”

  “No more innocent than I am a boy Madame, and well you know it, but if you wish to vent your spleen, I will hear you out.”

  Joséphine looked to the distant woods and raised the rose stem to her lips, the velvet bitterness of the bud feeling cool and ephemeral. She let the flower fall slowly to her side, and turned to face the man who would offer her everything. “He knew about our liaison from the very start, almost before it began. The Emperor has spies everywhere even now.”

  “Bonaparte is gone, exiled—vanquished by the greatest coalition of armies who ever saw battle. Not even a man of his prodigious talents will be able reach us now. You can rest assured of that. Besides, what does that man care of your plight? He deserted you so that he might marry a teenage princess from Austria. What kind of scoundrel is he, this man for whom you pine?”